


The Opportunity

by anodyna



Series: Orion-on-Vulcan Stories [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Aliens, F/M, Het, Holding Hands, Intoxication, Orion, Rare Pairing, Romulan, Vulcan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anodyna/pseuds/anodyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What brings a lovely young Orion to such a dull diplomatic conference?"  Sometimes the smartest propositions are the ones you don't make.</p><p>(Alternate summary:  An Orion and a Romulan meet in a bar.  Vulcans happen. :) )</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note:** Long ago [rubynye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye) asked for Spock Prime/Gaila head-canon, and I was inspired to write this story for her. IDEK how it ended up being from the POV of a Romulan. Life is full of such mysteries!

"Tell me, what brings a lovely young Orion to such a dull diplomatic conference?"

The lovely Orion turns curious blue eyes toward Sarvekh, who leans casually on the bar beside her. She lifts an eyebrow at the insignia on his jacket, but her expression is friendly enough, and in any case Sarvehk is not particular about invitations. He signals the bartender for another drink--his and hers--and settles comfortably on the neighboring stool.

"I'm here with the delegation from New Vulcan," the Orion says. She indicates Sarvekh's uniform with a slight tilt of her head. "And you? I didn't think space pirates got invited to these things."

Sarvekh laughs. "I am no pirate. I am in the Imperial Security Service. My commander is here at the request of Ambassador Spock. As Vulcans eschew violence, Commander Patekh does not require a personal guard. Hence I am off-duty for the evening."

"I see," she murmurs, smiling against the lip of her glass. "How convenient."

She is beautiful. From afar Sarvekh could see she was attractive, but up close her green skin fairly glows in the phosphorescent light of the bar, and her long red curls tumble down her back in a way that surely defies Starfleet regulations. Her high-necked uniform covers far too much of her upper body, but makes up for it in shortness, and though Sarvekh does not mean to stare at her legs, it is difficult not to. After all, he is no Vulcan.

His reverie is interrupted by the appearance of their drinks before them. "Forgive me," he says, "I did not introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Commander Sarvekh. Of course you must call me Sarvekh."

"Of course. And you must call me Gaila." She lifts the vial of pale pink liquid, studying its contents for a moment. "To diplomacy," she says.

"And the success of all our endeavors," he adds, and downs his drink as she does hers, in one burning swallow. He can already feel it going to his head--or perhaps it is her. Either way it is exhilarating.

"Oof," Gaila breathes, dropping her empty glass on the bar and licking her lips thoughtfully. "Is it me, or are these getting stronger? I think the bartender is trying to get me drunk."

Sarvekh nods, silently thanking the bartender for his foresight. "Perhaps it is a matter of professional pride. It is his job, after all."

Gaila laughs--a musical sound that nonetheless sends a little shiver through him. "I suppose it is. Will you have another?" She is already gesturing to the bartender, and fresh glasses are on the bar before Sarvekh can form words to reply.

There is something unsettling about her. Perhaps it is Orion pheromones. Sarvekh has heard that Orions in Starfleet take suppressants, but he can easily imagine that an Orion stationed among dry, impervious Vulcans might become lax in their application. Perhaps it might even be intentional--

Sarvekh's heart leaps at the thought. A free Orion, confined to Vulcan company--how restless might such a female become? Insatiable needs may lie in wait for the first male bold enough to seize the opportunity to find out. And who better for such a task than the finest officer in the Romulan Security Service?

"Tell me, Gaila," he says, lowering his voice and leaning in closer, "what does someone like yourself find to do in the company of Vulcans? It must be excruciatingly dull."

She leans closer, too, her blue eyes sparkling with interest. "Really? Do you think so?"

"I know so. Vulcans are creatures without passion, moved by nothing but the empty discipline of logic. Someone like you can have nothing in common with them."

"Hmm," Gaila replies with a smile, twining one long red curl around her finger. "I suppose some of them are a little repressed." She shifts on her stool, recrossing her long green legs--giving Sarvekh a glimpse of her inner thigh, as tantalizing as water in the desert.

"'Some of them'?" he repeats. "You are very generous. I would have said 'all.'"

"Of course. I must have misspoken. Whereas I imagine Romulans--"

"Romulans are nothing like Vulcans," he says--too emphatically perhaps, but alcohol and her proximity have loosened his tongue. "Romulans cannot be satisfied by the life of the mind alone. We are passionate beings; we do not lock ourselves in archives to waste our lives in the empty pursuit of logic. We crave stimulation, challenge…action…"

As he speaks he rests his fingers on her bare knee. Her skin is delightfully warm, satiny as the flesh of Bajoran peach. _Dear gods, she is perfect._ The thought of the rest of her--of what that skin would feel like pressed to his own--is almost dizzying, and he trails off, his sentence unfinished.

"I see," Gaila says, her face just inches from his, so close that a stray curl tickles his forehead. "I didn't realize. I so rarely meet Romulans."

Is it an invitation? A door left open, at least. An opportunity only a madman or a Vulcan would let go to waste. Sarvekh takes a deep breath and leaps: "If you would care to continue this discussion in my room," he says, sliding his fingers seductively up her leg, "I will show you exactly what a Romulan male can--"

He does not finish the offer. Gaila's eyes, which had been fixed on him, slide abruptly away to look at something over his shoulder. Sarvekh glances behind him; it is the Vulcan delegates, entering the bar with their Romulan counterparts.

Gaila is already on her feet, and Sarvekh jumps to attention as well, silently cursing the newcomers for their timing. "You see," he mutters to Gaila, "your Vulcans have nothing better to do at night than come here and stand around while we're trying to enjoy ourselves."

Her reply, if she makes one, is lost in the general confusion as the delegates disperse into the crowd. Among them Sarvekh picks out the tall, gray-haired figure of Ambassador Spock--the strange elder Vulcan responsible for this conference, whose interest in the behavior of solar bodies near Romulus strikes Sarvekh as unusual and suspicious.

As the Ambassador comes nearer, Gaila steps forward to speak to him, no doubt to pay her respects. Sarvekh smiles at the thought of a conversation between them--on one side a vivacious, intoxicated Orion, on the other a humorless Vulcan who wouldn't know what to do with such a female if she were handed to him in chains with instructions to use her as he will.

No matter; Sarvekh will be correcting the Vulcans' oversight shortly, just as soon as--

"Blast it," Sarvekh mutters under his breath. Commander Patekh's lieutenant has appeared by his side to brief him on tomorrow's security detail, and though unwilling to let Gaila out of his sight, duty demands that Sarvekh at least appear to pay attention.

The delay seems interminable. Sarvekh keeps one eye on Gaila as the lieutenant drones on, watching as other Vulcans join her conversation with Ambassador Spock. Finally the lieutenant finishes, and Sarvekh dismisses him with a wave of his hand. He is already plotting how to retrieve Gaila--and from there it is a short step to imagining what it will be like to undress her, to feel that luxuriant hair between his fingers, those beautiful legs around his waist. He lifts his glass in a silent toast to his own success.

He stops with glass halfway to his lips. Something odd has caught his eye, and he blinks, unsure of what he is seeing.

His eyes did not deceive him. A moment ago the Ambassador leaned down to speak quietly in Gaila's ear, and in doing so his hand brushed hers, so discreetly that no one but Sarvekh seems to have noticed. It must have been an accident. Yet the Ambassador is no longer leaning down, and--their hands are still touching.

Possible explanations flash through Sarvekh's mind, but none seem plausible. Ambassador Spock's countenance betrays nothing; neither does Gaila's. Surely it cannot be--

Gaila slowly turns her hand over and laces her fingers with the Ambassador's. Sarvekh is not hallucinating. It is surreptitious, but not imaginary.

They are holding hands.

Sarvekh's mind reels. Good gods, is she Ambassador Spock's mistress? Is she his _wife_? The distinction hardly seems to matter--certainly it will not matter to Commander Patekh, if word of this gets back to him. A Romulan officer attempting to bed the Vulcan Ambassador's woman! Sarvekh can almost feel the chill of the ice planet descending; no doubt that's where he'll be spending the rest of his career. He sits down heavily and sinks his head on his arms with a groan.

He does not know how long he sits there. The clink of credits on the bar beside him finally rouses him from his stupor, and he looks up to find Gaila standing next to him. She smiles.

"Thank you for an interesting conversation, Sarvekh," she says. "I'd like to stay longer, but you know what Vulcans are like."

Sarvekh nods dumbly. He watches as she walks away, back to the waiting figure of Ambassador Spock, standing by the door. He finds himself calculating how many drinks it will take for him to forget this entire evening. Ten? Fifteen?

He checks the stack of credits. Enough for twelve, at least. He'll say this for Gaila--she knows her business.

Spreading the credits on the bar with a sigh, he signals for the bartender, and gets to work on forgetting.

 

******


End file.
